Untamed (2 page)

“This live man is so much more beautiful than the pictures in Uncle’s books. Isn’t he beautiful, Athena?” Desarae whispered, looking not at the stranger’s face but at his magnificent body. Her innards felt heavy with sweet longing. She sighed when she realized he shivered. She envied the drying cloth its contact with his bronzed body.

Desarae fitted the capacious nightshirt over his head, thankful her uncle had been a big man before he took ill. She propped his arms across his chest after she fitted them into the sleeves and then wriggled the skirt of the shirt down over his hips until the garment. She took a deep breath and rolled half his body onto the truckle bed. After moving around to the other side of the bed, she tugged at his shoulders until she had him mostly on the low bed. She lifted his legs up onto the mattress and then covered him with blankets.

Her teeth caught hold of the corner of her lip once again. “Perhaps, Athena, he might like a drink of water. I’m sure you would, girl. I certainly need one.”

Desarae hurried back into the house and returned moments later with Athena’s bowl, a jug of water, and a cup. Athena eagerly lapped at the water in her bowl. When she finished what she wanted she watched her mistress try to get the man to drink. Desarae sat back in defeat. She drank some of the water in the cup herself and tried to worry out how best to proceed. Her mind turned from the matter of getting him to drink to how she would feel if she had to sleep out of doors without a roof over her head.

This thought sent her flying into the house. She returned with the red brocade coverlet off her uncle’s massive bed. She placed this on the bed then returned to the house. The silent sentries watched her drag four heavy dining room chairs across their parade ground, twine tucked into the front of her dark green bodice.

With one tall chair stationed at the head and the other at the foot of the truckle bed, Desarae created a tent over her sailor. She put the other two chairs next to the bed so that the interior of the tent was large enough to contain her and Athena. Desarae returned to his side and brought the cup to his lips once more, determined to have him drink a little water.

Trystan felt the cool liquid against his lips. In his befuddled state precious minutes passed before he understood that the water pressed to his lips was not salty. He opened his cracked lips and drunk thirstily.

“That is sufficient,” a husky feminine voice stated. He shook his head. “You will make yourself ill.”

Trystan strove to rise and arms pushed him down again. He groaned at his weakness. The pillow behind his head felt as if it was filled with bricks.

“I removed your dirty clothes and bathed you.”

I can bathe myself,
Trystan tried to say. His helplessness annoyed him and he longed to see who helped him but he couldn’t find the power to open his eyes and he slipped into unconsciousness again.

Desarae felt his forehead and then frowned with concern. He was so hot! She dipped the washing cloth into the cool drinking water and wrung it out. She folded it and placed it on his forehead. He sighed with relief. After a moment she turned it over. When he settled into sleep, she retrieved some salve for his lips. Only by keeping firm control over her wondering thoughts was she able to smooth the salve upon his cracked lips.

She stayed at his side, renewing the cloth often. The stranger moaned occasionally, alternately shivering and throwing off the covers as if he found the blankets unbearably hot. Night seeped under the deep crimson of the coverlet. She rose from her cramped position on the edge of the bed. She ruffled Athena’s fur.

“I must get our dinner,” Desarae whispered. She leaned over to receive the terrier’s thankful lick. “You stay here with the man,” she ordered firmly. Athena’s tongue lolled out of her mouth in reply.

Desarae slipped under the brocade and out into the cool evening. She let the silken night air caress her dark tresses and twirled on one bare foot, revelling in the divine sunset glowing in the west. She came to a sudden remembrance of her purpose and ceased her homage to the dying day. Her long slender arms returned to her sides and her bare feet dashed up the moss steps propelling her toward the house. She came to an abrupt halt beside a sculpture. A handsome visage graced the naked form and upon his curled locks sat a laurel wreath.

“Ah, Apollo,” Desarae whispered, letting her calloused finger run along a polished stone arm. “I have need of your healing powers, sir,” she murmured. “Lend them to me tonight,” she begged, then bobbed an awkward curtsy.

Unerringly, Desarae skirted around the stone watchmen and found her way to the kitchen. She lit an oil lamp and set it on the stained table. The kitchen walls of whitewashed brick hung with various necessary implements and containers. From a basket sitting on a dresser she uncovered crusty rolls she had baked earlier that day. She broke up a roll into an earthenware bowl then softened it with goat’s milk. She dribbled honey over the bread. A sprinkle of cinnamon topped off the food.

Desarae sped about the kitchen preparing food for Athena and doing necessary chores as quickly as possible. Artemis, the goat, butted her mistress imperiously the moment Desarae approached her in the small paddock behind the house. “I will have none of your nonsense tonight, madam,” Desarae snapped, swatting the goat on her rump. Artemis submitted regally to being milked then set about trying to tip the bucket when the task was completed. Desarae swatted her again and chained her inside the paddock. The goat protested loudly at this treatment.

“I will not have you eating my uncle’s coverlet, Artemis,” Desarae explained with a firm shake of her head. She tucked her hair behind her ear once again as she carried the bucket into the dairy and placed it in a tub of water to cool.

She took a tarnished silver platter from its shelf and loaded it with their dinner. She grasped the lantern handle in one hand and balanced the platter with the other.

“Gentlemen,” she murmured politely as she crossed the terrace. “Pan, you behave yourself, do you hear me?” She admonished the grinning god who was posed in the act of bringing his reed pipes to his lips. The swaying lantern cast his face in an eerie grin as if in anticipation. “We want no nightmares tonight, if you please.”

Desarae bit her lip as she contemplated the outside of the make-shift tent. She placed the lantern ever so carefully on the ground while she ducked under the coverlet. One of the dining room chairs became the depository for the tray so she could bring the lantern within the small space. Athena greeted her with a yip and eagerly consumed the bowl of scraps Desarae placed on the ground.

Her mistress perched on the side of the bed, the bowl of softened bread balanced on her lap while she straightened the covers once again. She took the damp cloth from where it had fallen beside the pillow, wet it, rung it out, and replaced it on his hot forehead.

“Sir,” she said in her husky voice, prodding his shoulder with her finger. “Sir, wake-up, please,” she requested. “Wake-up, sir.” She shook his shoulder more firmly.

Trystan wondered who the idiot was that had bound his tongue in cotton gauze. He managed to lick his lips and then swallow the water dribbled into his mouth. His response to the soft mush placed against his mouth was to turn his head away.

“Keep still, please.” That husky voice of his dreams was back. “You must eat. Please, try,” the so-feminine voice begged. How could he refuse? He managed to consume most of the bowl before he slipped out of consciousness once more.

Desarae set the bowl aside and consumed her crusty bun filled with sliced goat cheese. She drank a glass of milk then set the dishes back on the tray.

“I will return, Athena,” Desarae promised, scooping up the tray and the lantern. “Guard the man.”

The terrier whimpered once but was soon settled comfortably next to the bed. She only lifted her head when her mistress returned. She went out of the tent to do her business while Desarae laid out an oiled cloth on the grass. On top of the cloth she placed a thick folded blanket. A pillow was dropped on one end. Desarae tucked a quilt over the man so he wouldn’t be cold in the middle of the night. She shook out the other quilt, wrapped it about her nightgown-encased figure and lay down on her pillow. Athena returned and crawled over beside her mistress to share her warmth before she fell asleep.

“It is strange, is it not, Athena?” Desarae whispered as she turned down the lantern wick until it was almost extinguished. “To have a man—a very fine specimen, to be sure—other than Jim on the isle again.” Desarae fell silent. Her next words were spoken in a gasping rush. “I’m a little afraid of him, Athena…I…I…do not know what he will be like, you see?” she breathed, hugging the colorful quilt about her more tightly. “I’m excited too…because, well, because he is different…because he is beautiful…because
I
feel different when I am around him,” she explained. “I’ll be twenty-one in two days…you thought I had forgotten my age, did you not, old friend?” Desarae challenged softly. She tucked her hair behind her small shell-shaped ear. It was inadequate for her purpose and the unruly hair easily slipped free. “Twenty-one, Athena…too old to be afraid…But…not too old to be excited,” she confessed.

Chapter Two

T
rystan moaned and rolled over, promptly falling out of a low, narrow truckle bed. He grunted and lifted a hand trembling with weakness to rasp it across his beard. He dug his fists into his eyes and rubbed the sleep from the corners even as he moaned once more.
Oh, Lord, I feel like last year’s salt pork.

A wet tongue slid across his cheek causing Trystan’s eyes to snap open. Blinking rapidly, his eyes adjusted to the red light beneath the coverlet that formed a crude tent. They turned and met big brown eyes, shaggy fur, and a cold wet nose.

“Hello,” he croaked. Trystan grimaced and cleared his throat. The dog’s bark reverberated across his aching head.

Trystan untangled himself from the bedclothes, wondering under his breath at his strange lodgings. A book fell onto his foot. He winced, picked it up, and read the title:
Fragmemta Auria, A Collection of All the Incomparable Pieces Written by Sir John Suckling.
Hunh
, he thought, impressed,
mother has this book
. He carefully put the old book down on the bed and then his hands smoothed the fine cotton nightshirt he wore while he attempted to take his bearings.

He remembered little—just images really: a looming angel, wings outstretched; a persistent feminine voice; a blurry woman’s face above his as he ate something soft and sweet. He sat now on the ground beside a truckle bed set up outside, not in a bedchamber. His heels dug into the damp, cool grass.
How did I manage to survive? Has the Lady May sunk along with her crew, cargo, and passengers?
His stomach muscles clenched. He had not cared for his passengers, but he had loyal friends among his crew.
Are they all at the bottom of the sea?

Trystan leaned an elbow on the low bed and pitched about getting his feet beneath him.
I must discover what has happened.
Head spinning, he managed to sweep the coverlet out of the way so that he could stand straight.
So weak
. A whistle sounded. His head snapped up, bringing a fresh groan of regret for such precipitous action.

The gray terrier responded enthusiastically. The dog raced joyfully toward her mistress.

“Athena!” Trystan heard and a sensual shiver raced down his spine. “Did you guard him well, girl?”

“She did,” he replied, turning to look for the voice’s owner. He blinked in the late morning sunlight. When his eyes adjusted, she had gone.

“Where are you?” Trystan cried, and then clutched one hand to his head in agony. “Never mind.”

When he could manage to look about once more, Trystan saw a tray sitting on the ground not ten feet away. A bowl of table scraps sitting in the long grass beside the tray was being quickly devoured by Athena. Trystan stumbled to the tray, fell to his knees, and managed to bring the pitcher of milk to his mouth. Eagerly he drank the warm sweet liquid.

Desarae peeked out from behind a vigorous blossoming apple tree, her eyes drinking in the sight of the man. The rough trunk dug into her palms as she pressed against it, her breath anxious, excited and coming fast through parted lips. How his presence thrilled her!

Her uncle’s nightshirt came only to his knees, revealing bulging calf muscles as he crouched down. His golden hair curled loosely around a strong, tanned face and down over his collar. His dark blond eyebrows bowed agreeably over azure eyes

“`
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?’
” she said, heeding not the breeze that carried her words to the man not fifteen feet from her.
“`Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can’t move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale?’
”

Trystan stilled, entranced by the low words. He waited in vain for the watcher to continue the familiar quote but when she remained silent, he spoke aloud, not turning toward her for fear she would flit away again.

“
`Why so dull and mute, young sinner?’
” he quoted from Suckling. “
`Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can’t win her, Saying nothing do’t? Prithee, why so mute?’
” He waited once more, his shoulders taut, his manner anxious. Her reply came from further away.

“
`Quit, quit, for shame; this will not move, This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her!’
” was her laughing reply.

Trystan spun on his heel, searching the orchard for her. A scrap of light blue material drew his eye and he rose to his feet and then almost fell to the ground as a bout of dizziness seized him. “Damn,” he whispered, taking only a step or two until the unsteadiness passed.

He entered the orchard, ducking beneath branches laden with brilliant white and pink blossoms, Athena barking at his heels. A delight-filled ripple came from the left and he raced after the sound, only to be brought up short by a boulder sitting in the middle of the orchard.